


A Perfect Storm

by DoreyG



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Nipple Play, Peter can be not very good with his words, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Language, Peter,” Thomas chides, lifting his mouth from my nipple to grin hazily up at me. His lips are glistening wet, my nipple looks about the same. We’re both naked and sweaty and twined together in a way that is about as conducive (if a lot more pleasant) to attempted concentration as being hit repeatedly by a cricket bat-</p>
<p>And <i>forma</i>, specifically Thomas’ <i>forma</i>, is moving over me in lazy waves. Suckling at the hollow of my throat, teasing gently over my free nipple, gambolling down my stomach, whispering over my shaking thighs in a way that’d probably drive me <i>totally</i> insane if that barrier hadn’t been passed long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Storm

“ _Fuck_.”

“Language, Peter,” Thomas chides, lifting his mouth from my nipple to grin hazily up at me. His lips are glistening wet, my nipple looks about the same. We’re both naked and sweaty and twined together in a way that is about as conducive (if a lot more pleasant) to attempted concentration as being hit repeatedly by a cricket bat-

And _forma_ , specifically Thomas’ _forma_ , is moving over me in lazy waves. Suckling at the hollow of my throat, teasing gently over my free nipple, gambolling down my stomach, whispering over my shaking thighs in a way that’d probably drive me _totally_ insane if that barrier hadn’t been passed long ago.

…What I’m saying here is that you shouldn’t expect much restraint. Or, indeed, coherency.

“How-“ my chest heaves and I let out a tiny whimpering sound as Thomas chuckles, low and heavy; drops his head to trail kisses around my _oh so sensitive_ nipple like it’s the sweetest thing ever created, “the – ah! - _Fuck_ di-did you – oh _god_ \- learn _this_!”

“I’m closing in on a hundred with somewhat alarming speed, Peter,” he replies – and I _feel_ it more than hear it, the vibrations of his words travelling up and under my skin in a way that _does not_ help the whole concentration problem a single bit, “you tend to pick up a _few_ things.”

“Ye-yeah, _but_ -“ I whoop out a loud breath, tilt my head right back against the pillow and close my eyes to try and gain a little _perspective_. Thomas’ _forma_ , of bloody _course_ , takes advantage of this the moment he notices – creeps stealthily up my thighs until _suddenly_ it’s wrapping around my balls and I’m yelping out the rest of my sentence before I can even _think_ , “weren’t you supposed to be _horrifically_ repressed back then?”

Thomas, fortunately for my continued chances of getting off on a regular basis, is not offended by this. Thomas, less fortunately for my _current_ sanity, is so not offended by this that he actually _chuckles_ \- a distracting rasp of air that not only makes my nipple prickle, but that also causes all of his _forma_ to tighten _just so_ and an involuntary _yelp_ to come clawing its way out of my throat, “This was the thirties and forties, Peter, _not_ Victorian England, and furthermore…”

He pulls back for a second, considers. His _forma_ fail to ease again, leaving me writhing and whimpering on the bed with absolutely _no_ way to do anything about it.

“I believe that teenagers will always be teenagers, no matter _what_ time they exist in,” he smiles at me fondly, but shows no mercy – instead actually _presses a kiss to my nipple_ (ah-) and eases his hand down my body, cups my cock in a gentle grip that makes me _buck_ up into him, “honestly, Peter, you can’t believe _everything_ that you read.“

I-

I-

_I-_

I _jolt_ beneath him, reach up to claw at his shoulders in a silent and desperate plea. It’s not enough, it’s never going to _be_ enough. The teasing, the weight, the subtle touch of Thomas’ hand where it matters the _most_. I want, I want, I _want_ -

“My,” and Thomas’ composure slips just a little, just a _lot_. His voice dips an octave lower, his eyes go molten and _entirely_ fixed upon my face, “my _my_. Do you want _more_ , Peter?”

I make a strangled noise. One that’s high-pitched, kind of shaky. It contains no actual words in it, probably not even any recognizable letters, but I hope it gets the point across adequately. Carries across all the details. Makes everything _clear_ in a way that I can’t actually verbalize because fucking _Christ_ it feels like my brain is melting out of my ears and taking every single bit of sanity that I may or may not possess with me.

“Well,” Thomas says, and studies me intently.

I buck again, make a cramped whining noise that _possibly_ backs up my original point.

“ _Well_ ,” Thomas murmurs, and leans in a little – his breath ghosting across my lips, his _forma_ going crazy on my skin.

I snarl at him, choke at him, bare my throat to him like _that’s_ going to help anything (it fucking might, _please_ let it fucking might).

“ _Well_..” Thomas whispers, gaze going hot.

I _howl_ -

And suddenly the _forma_ is rippling across my skin, rippling _inside_ me, and I’m _coming_. Harder than I ever have before, faster than I ever have before, so hard and fast that I actually see stars and galaxies and _universes_ exploding behind my eyes in a weird parody of the Doctor Who opening titles.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I choke again when it’s all over, flopping back against the sheets like a boneless parody of a human being.

And Thomas, my Thomas, only _chuckles_ in reply.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Perfect Storm [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566945) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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